Chapter 1

New York City, 2000

Under a chilled squall, Charlie pulled the bill down on her New York Yankees cap. She didn’t like baseball, hated the city, and loathed the weather, yet there she was, soaked to the skin and shivering under the shadow of the flatiron building. The autumnal sun had failed to penetrate the gloom, bringing the day to a premature close. The bittersweet waft of steam from an underground vent fell across her face, lifting the hair on the back of her neck. Her father, Pop, called the fall the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness. But that was back in Virginia; this was goddamn, frozen ass, New York City. The soup she had purchased from the café on the south side of Madison Square Park had been repurposed as a hand warmer. Losing the cardboard sleeve from the cup had proven to be a master stroke. Thankfully, some feeling was returning to the tips of her fingers.

Tourists circumnavigated a tall black man selling knock-off bags from a tarpaulin placed strategically at the junction of Broadway and East 23rd Street. Trade looked slow. Damp and slow. When the warning from a young lookout rang out, the alfresco shop was hurriedly closed down. At breakneck speed, the bags, the tarpaulin, and the seller did a disappearing act, in that order. Charlie turned from the commotion to face the solitude of the moment.

Above, in the fading light, the silver lettering on a nearby shop had turned to gunmetal gray. The dark blue cast-iron pillars framed the

 

edges of the one beacon of light in the immediate vicinity, the Manheim Gallery of Fine Art. Crystal clear lighting fell from the gallery window out onto the wet cobbles. Despite the prevailing conditions, the gallery remained fresh and exciting. It had shown the audacity to burst forth from the bohemian enclave of Chelsea, a few blocks away. High End didn’t come close to describing the prowess and position the rive-gauche emporium held within the Manhattan arts scene. She had done it before and was doing it again. Staring. Just staring.

Inside, ice-cold LED wall lights on wire stalks cast the perfect amount of light on each and every work of art. A few pieces stood out from the crowd of canvases: a couple of Chagalls, two works from Kandinsky, and a Rothko. A fresh northerly blast forced Charlie to lift her collar and bow her head in chilled reverence.

There it is.

At the epicenter of the gallery stood the object of her interest, a painting by Jackson Pollock. She had visited and studied the piece so often that she considered it her only friend in Manhattan. As she edged across to the doorway to gain a better view, the snooty stick insect who owned the gallery cut through her line of sight. The lady lowered her aquiline nose far enough to spy Charlie over her thin rim glasses. Charlie smiled. In response, the lady stepped towards the door. At the last second, she flipped the sign on the door to Closed. The only thing on show that night was the owner’s clean set of heels.

Charlie checked her watch. Three minutes to closing time. She got the message. Not for the first time, Charlie watched the gallery lights go out, one by one. The last light, as always, held its position directly above the object of her desire, the mesmerizing Jackson Pollock. She seared the image deeper into her psyche just as the final bulb died. The show was over.

 

As she turned to head to the nearby Italian market, she heard the store shutters bringing down the curtain on another performance.

Home time.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 2

A few days later, Charlie arrived at the gallery a little over an hour before closing. The old school bell above the door rattled as she entered. The older owner could not have been less pleased to see Charlie. Although serving another elderly couple, the woman’s tut seemed to drown out the bell. Charlie took no heed. Instead, she eased through the gallery on a beeline for her Pollock. The crisp lighting cast a sheen across the polished limestone floor. Wandering through, Charlie’s clunky boots made quite the impression. As if disturbed by her arrival, the old couple severed negotiations and shuffled for the door. This was Charlie’s fifth visit. In that time, the elderly couple had been the only other patrons she had noticed. Quality, not quantity.

And there it was, the Pollock. Wire spotlights hung above the painting, mounted against a charcoal felt backboard. At three feet by two feet, the piece was far removed from the massive specimens Pollock had become famous for producing. Trademark multi-colored splashes and sloshes coated a cream canvas that had soured over time. Faded Crimson Flashes did battle with ochre and yellow dashes. In a break from the norm, sporadic strokes from an angled brush had thrown strips of convoluted charcoal around the chaos. Charlie recognized the style prevalent toward the end of Pollock’s short life. In a bid to throw out more pieces, he had downsized and economized. It was the perfect example of his work.

Charlie stalked the piece like a hunting lion.

 

The owner lurked in the wings, like a vulture.

The owner’s tall, angular, high-structured façade matched the nearby building sitting at the intersection of 5th Avenue and Broadway. Charlie leaned in close to inspect the signature. Scribbled and barely legible, the frenetic scroll was perfectly placed toward the bottom right but still embedded in the bedlam. Leaning in further, she set her nose close to the piece. Filling her lungs, she categorized the painting’s mystical aromas.

“So, you’re back.” Condescension coated every syllable.

A tight, garish, multi-patterned dress was pulled in at the waist by an oversized patent leather belt. The woman’s dress code matched her age, late sixties.

“Please step away from the piece.” The old owner had seen enough. Charlie tucked her hands inside the pockets of her oversized combat jacket. “I wasn’t going to touch-“

“That’s from the man himself, Jackson Pollock.” “Paul.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Jackson was his middle name. His name was Paul.”

“So, you know a little about Mister Pollock. You ought to. What is this, your tenth time in here?”

“Fifth.”

“Hmm. Feels like tenth.” The owner awarded herself with a

chuckle.

Charlie couldn’t be baulked. “It’s quite the piece, though.”

“He’s not always been popular, you know. The New Yorker once derogatively described him as Jack the Dripper.”

 

“Time.”

“Pardon?”

“It wasn’t the New Yorker, it was Time Magazine.” Charlie

enjoyed that one.

“My, you are informed.” “Informed and interested.” “Interested in?”

“Buying this. It is for sale, isn’t it?”

The old owner’s face almost straightened. “I’m sorry, but I’d

respectfully suggest that-“

“I’m not after respect. I’m after a price.” “Eight hundred and seventy-five thousand.” “That’s the asking price?”

“That’s the ticketed price, yes.” “And that’s negotiable?”

“We don’t horse trade.” “But it’s negotiable.” “It’s malleable.”

The old lady refused to buy Charlie’s buying signals. “Well, I will leave you to ruminate.”

“Oh, I’ve done all the rumination I need. It’s my father you need to convince.”

“Your father?”

“You don’t think I could afford this on my own?”

 

The old owner’s face told Charlie that for once, they were in agreement.

“Hang on, I’ll call him; he’s supposed to be here any minute.”

The phone rang out.

Suddenly, the gallery door clanged open.

“Pop!”

“Hello, Charlotte.”

“I was just calling you.”

“Sorry, I was a little distracted. There’s a lovely dog park across the

street and there’s was this cute little French bulldog just-“

“Oh, we can hear about that later Pop, I’m sure this lady doesn’t

want to hear your stories about-“

“Geraldine Plummer. Pleased to meet you.”

“Oh, is that your name? In the ten times I’ve been coming here, you’ve not said.”

Pop returned the greeting. “Professor Glass of the Smithsonian.” “The Smithsonian? How interesting.”

Charlie bristled inwardly. Lady, you’re interested, but not in Pop’s

position.

“Your daughter, Charlotte, is it? Has a keen eye on our Pollock.” “Well, she has known what she wanted her entire life.”

“And what she wants, she gets?” enquired the owner. Pop smiled. “Well, we’ll see about that.”

“Can I introduce you to the piece?”

 

Pop slithered. “I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s not really my thing.

The more I look at it, the less likely a sale will be.”

“Come on, Pop, don’t be like that. It’s an investment.”

“I’m not really here to see the canvas. I’m here to see the paperwork.”

“You want to check the supporting documentation.” “Province, I think you call it?”

“Provenance.” Charlie rolled her eyes.

“Sorry girlie, we can’t all be graduates of the Sorbonne.” “The Sorbonne? In Paris?”

“Is there another one?”

It appeared Pop couldn’t help himself. “Faculty of Arts and Humanities.”

Geraldine looked a little too impressed by the recent disclosures. “Well, you’ll appreciate the supporting documentation. We’ve never had a piece so well supported and so thoroughly authenticated.”

“Well, who am I to stand in the way of my daughter’s dreams?

Lead on.”

“Wow, well OK. Please come this way.”

Geraldine led the pair through a well-appointed back alcove. The choice of still or sparkling waters was offered and courteously declined. The allure of freshly prepared espresso proved too enticing for Charlie. “May I?”

“Of course.”

“Anyone else?” After receiving two shakes of the head, Charlie set

to work, and Geraldine moved off into a back office. By the time

 

Charlie had prepared her drink, Geraldine was back, fully loaded with the pertinent documentation.

Inside the elaborate honeycomb ceiling, recessed spotlights hung overhead. Four sets of occasional chairs sat in a perfect square. The luxurious black leather chaises wrapped in walnut casings sat on chrome bases.

“Original Eames Brothers?” enquired Charlie. “Very good.1956.”

“Just like the painting.” My, you really are good.” “She really is.” prompted Pop proudly.

“I try.”

Piece by piece, every item was entered into evidence.

“The piece is mentioned in this letter sent by Pollock to Ruby Kingsman.”

“Sorry. Ruby Kingsman?”

“One of the women who was in the car when Pollock died.” “Pollock died in a car crash?”

“Oh, Pop!”

Geraldine’s eyebrows threatened her hairline. “Can the letter be authenticated?”

“As far as any letter from that period can be. It came with the painting.”

“And how did you come by the painting?”

 

“Like so many of them, an elderly member from our local synagogue, Dr. Leibovich, passed away. Their family is looking to cover death duties.”

“It’s a good price, Pop, no?”

“Well, we’ll see, Charlotte. We’ll see.”

Geraldine seemed in no mood to quit while she was ahead.

Pollock ran his drip floor paintings from 1947 to 1956. Some of

the larger pieces now go for multiple millions of dollars.” “See Pop. A bargain.”

“So, how did the current seller get his hands on the painting?” “Her.”

“Sorry?”

“Her hands, Dr Heidi Leibovich.”

Charlie bit her tongue in condemnation of the misstep. Thankfully, Geraldine didn’t make too much of it. She was too busy making a lot out of her next exhibit. After rifling through the papers, she pulled yet more evidence. “Have you seen the abridged bio online?”

Only Charlie nodded.

“Then you’ll have seen this letter?”

Another solitary nod. Another blank look.

“It details the sales transaction between Dr. Leibovich and the Manhattan Masters Art Gallery in early 1957.”

Pop took careful possession of the article with all the grace and care of a museum custodian. Charlie was more pointed. “Could I see the back of it?”

 

“Well, we don’t normally-“

“If we’re spending the best part of a million dollars, I think-“ “We?” Pop was quick to chide.

“Sorry, if my father is spending-“

This time Geraldine’s raised palm cut Charlie off. “Let me see what I can do.”

Charlie made her excuses. “I hate being a pain. It’s just that there have been more fake Pollocks found than he ever made.”

“I fully understand, but I can assure you of its unimpeachable provenance.”

Pop pulled out the verbal smoothing iron. “Oh, no one is accusing you of any malpractice. Far from it.”

Geraldine worked on setting up a separate easel nearby. A cloth was then rested on the stand to act as a cushion. With exaggerated care and reverence, she eased the piece from its housing and lifted it across onto the support. As the pair moved in, Geraldine stepped back. “You will see. It’s all there. The gallery labels and security tag are still intact.

Pop pointed like a child. “She’s right, you know.”

Charlie hemmed and hawed. Inch by line, the back of the painting fell under her scrutinous gaze. She smiled.

“Like what you see?”

Charlie’s smile widened. “It’s exactly as I imagined it would be.” “Happy?” her father enquired.

“Happy.”

“Can we get down to business then, Geraldine? I can call you Geraldine?”

 

“Buy this painting and you can call me what you like.”

A painfully forced chuckle threatened the moment. “This is such a great investment. We’re seeing pieces provide annualized rates of return in the double digits.”

“Trust me, I am not doing this for the money.” “I might be.” Strained Pop.

As the trio landed back in the rear office chairs, Charlie took charge. “So how does a twelve percent reduction of the sale price sound.”

“Charlotte.” Pop sounded almost embarrassed.

Geraldine played it cool. “It sounds like you have removed all my commission.”

The elongated silence was broken by Pop. “What would consider to be reasonable?”

“The asking price.” was Geraldine’s reply.

“Let’s split the difference.” Pop’s decisive offer of a handshake

seemed to take Geraldine by storm.

“I will need a deposit.”

“He has his chequebook.” announced Charlie.

The handshake followed. “We have a deal, Professor Glass.”

Smiles collided as Geraldine set to work collating the files and preparing the sales docket. Pop pulled out his chequebook and set his fountain pen to work. His neat, concise pen strokes filled out the slip. “When do you want to take delivery? We would need full payment before we could organize that.”

“Oh, that won’t be a problem.”

 

Immediately after Geraldine and Pop exchanged paperwork, Pop

stood and exhaled. “Well, this is where I leave you.” “Leave us?” queried Geraldine.

Pop smiled and turned for the door. Geraldine’s face twisted to find Charlie moving in closely, badge in hand. “Geraldine Plummer, I am Special Agent Charlotte Glass from the Art Crimes Division of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

“What?”

As Pop exited, two uniformed officers bundled into the shop. Charlie pulled her handcuffs from behind her back. I am arresting you under suspicion of making false representations under the Fraud and Forgery Act of 1988.”

Geraldine spun. “This is an outrage.”

Charlie applied the Cuffs. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense.”

“You can’t prove any of this-“

“Geraldine it’s probably best that you don’t say-“ “It’s Mrs. Plummer to you, young lady.”

“Then it’s Special Agent Glass to you, mam.”

“To hell with you. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Well, if you’re going there, let’s talk about the painting. It’s style.” “What of it?”

“The painting didn’t match the style of the time. The brush strokes were out of kilter with the periodic norms.”

 

“Ha. Imbecilic. He used some brush strokes at the end. It just goes to prove-“

“Yes, he used brushes, but not so much on the base layers. Bad move. As were the staple holes in the back of the canvas.”

“Staplers were invented way before 1956.”

“They were, but canvases were tacked together right up to the seventies. Oh, and he died on August 11, 1956.”

“Your point being?” Patience was not the old owner’s forte.

“Pollock took months to process his work. Nothing he did in 1956 would have been close to entering a gallery at the time of his death.”

“I’ll have you know the Manhattan Masters Art Gallery was one of

the most connected-“ “It didn’t exist.”

Geraldine baulked. “I beg your pardon.”

“You heard. No business licenses for such an entity have ever existed.”

The owner mounted her defense. “Records don’t go back that far.”

“Ours do. We are the FBI, remember?” Charlie was on a roll. “You know it and I know it. The Manhattan Masters Art Gallery has never existed. Nor was the telephone number listed in any of the correspondence. Oh, and Dr Leibovich.”

“What of her.”

“Vanished without ever having left a trace in the first place. It’s all lies, and you know it.”

As Geraldine stuttered, Charlie rolled on through. “Up close. The painting. Did you smell it?”

 

“Of course not.”

“Then you missed the biggest giveaway of all. The smell of tea.” “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think you do. Tea. A crude but effective way of ageing a canvas is to rub it with old tea bags. Darjeeling, if I am not mistaken. My god, that’s a crime in itself. What a waste.”

“You think you’re so smart.” “I think you’re so screwed.” “Hardly. The letter.”

“What about it?”

“I had it authenticated. You can’t tell me that’s not genuine.” “Oh, I can. And I will. The font was confirmed by our calligraphy

experts as being Avinir.”

“And that’s significant because?”

“It is a geometric sans serif designed by Frenchmen Adrian Frutiger who named it after the French word for future.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“It wasn’t around in the 1950s. It was released in 1987, to be exact.”

“Well, that’s all news to me. I don’t have your resources. How do you expect me to know all that? I can’t check everything.”

“Eh, there’s such a thing as due diligence.”

Geraldine bit back hard. “I did my due diligence.”

“I bet you did. You checked to make sure you weren’t caught.” “You can’t prove anything.”

 

Charlie had been waiting for the pivot. “Syracuse.” Geraldine’s jaw clamped shut.

She went again. “Syracuse. Ring any bells?”

“I haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about.”

“You did your due diligence last week up in Syracuse.” “You followed me?”

“All the way to the home of Tristram Harper. Everyone’s favorite forger. Well, I say home. It’s more of a secret studio.”

“That was a misunderstanding.”

“Not according to Tristram. When we served him a warrant earlier today, he was only too willing to paint yet another picture for us. And guess who was in the frame?”

So, this is our third Pollock on top of, amongst others, the

Kandinsky and the Rothkos? Sheer greed.”

Geraldine looked too angry to plead, too lost to argue. “Bitch.” “It’s been mentioned to me before.” Charlie ceded command.

“Sargent. Over to you.”

“You not taking her in Agent Glass?”

“No, likely I gotta go drag my dad out of that dog park across the street.”

 

 

 

CHAPTER 3

Two weeks later, Charlie still hadn’t managed to extract herself from New York. Mercifully, she had been able to shed the Yankees hat.

Pop read a nearby graphic. “What’s Synchronism?”

“It’s a form of abstract art that creates effects through rhythmic color forms. Why do you ask?”

“This fella here.” “Thomas Hart Benton?”

“The very same, says he was one of those Synchronism chaps.”

“Well, it must be true if it says it there. This is, after all, the Metropolitan Museum of Art.”

The pair looked around in unison. “It’s quite the place.” “It certainly is. Of course, it’s not the Smithsonian.” “Of course, Pop, nothing ever is.”

“So, why are we here again?”

“I wanted to show you this painting.” “This synchronist painting?”

“Very good. This Synchronist painting.”

 

“What about it?” “Recognize anyone?”

The epic painting depicted a host of steelworkers carrying out various functions. Molten ore poured across scenes covered with steam and fire. Almost art nouveau in style, the bottom right section of the collage gathered Charlie’s interest. She pointed to a man in a sleeveless t-shirt, stoking a fire in the sweltering heat. “Recognize him?”

“No. Should I?”

“Well, you bought one of his paintings.” “What that’s Pollock?”

“Allegedly. It is said he posed as a model for this very painting.” “Ha! No way. You’re a constant source of surprises.”

“As are you Pop. You did well on the sting.”

“Ah, it was nothing. I did as I was told. Be yourself and buy a painting. It’s a good job the checkbook was fake. I don’t have anything like that kind of money.”

“Well, we got her and her forgery ring, so thanks a million.” “She looked so innocent.”

“Looks are almost always deceiving.” “Learn that from your FBI training?”

“No. I learned that from you. Don’t you remember?” “I can barely remember what I had for breakfast.” “Really? It was an overblown pastrami bagel!”

 

“Oh yeah. How can I forget?” The pair bumped shoulders, never

losing eye contact with the massive painting in front of them. Pop kicked off the inquiry. “So, how can you be so sure? “About?”

“The lady’s guilt.”

We had a tip that she was selling fakes. Well, not fakes as such. She

was just selling too many of them in too short a time frame.” “Is that a thing?”

“It is, if you’re uncovering once-in-a-lifetime pieces every other

month.”

“She could be lucky or well connected.”

“She’d have to be both to get just one of the paintings she was moving on. And the frequency was off.”

“In what way? Instead of the supply drying up, it was opening up.” “So, she got greedy?”

“That’s what got her on our radar. That’s not what sealed her fate.” “Was there one thing? A silver bullet?”

“No, just a host of self-inflicted wounds.” Charlie turned to face her father, leaned in, and lifted his hand. “Speaking of self-inflicted wounds, I have some news.”

Concern etched Pop’s brow as Charlie brought his worst fears to life. “They have asked me to go to Iraq.”

Charlie stood beside the massive painting of steelworkers, the conversation with her father lingering in the air like a storm cloud. The Metropolitan Museum of Art was bustling with visitors, the sound of hushed conversations and echoing footsteps filling the grand halls. She

 

turned her attention back to her father, who wore a mixture of concern and pride on his face.

“Iraq?” Pop’s voice quivered slightly as he processed the news. “What for?”

Charlie took a deep breath and began explaining. “The Bureau has been tasked with investigating a series of art thefts in Iraq, and they want me to lead the team. It’s a delicate situation. With the instability in the region, there’s been a surge in looting of historical artifacts and art from museums and archaeological sites.”

Pop furrowed his brow, concern etching lines on his face. “That sounds dangerous, Charlie.”

Charlie nodded through her solemn expression. “It is, but it’s also important work. We’re trying to recover Iraq’s cultural heritage and prevent these stolen artifacts from ending up on the black market. It’s not just about art; it’s about preserving history.”

Her father’s eyes softened, and he placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “I understand, Charlie. You’ve always been determined to make a difference. Just promise me you’ll be careful over there.”

“I promise, Pop,” Charlie replied with a grateful smile. “And I’ll make sure to keep you updated. We’ll video chat whenever we can.”

As they continued to discuss her upcoming mission, the ambience of the museum surrounded them. Visitors from around the world marveled at the art and history displayed on the walls, the echoes of admiration blending with the emotions in the air.

Meanwhile, back in New York City, the autumnal weather persisted. The crisp air carried the scent of roasted chestnuts from street vendors mingling with the aroma of freshly baked pretzels. The city’s vibrancy flowed through the streets.

 

At the Manheim Gallery of Fine Art, the Jackson Pollock painting remained safely displayed under the dim, carefully positioned lights. The gallery owner, Geraldine Plummer, was nowhere to be seen, her criminal endeavors now exposed.

In the heart of Manhattan, life moved on.

 

 

 

 

ARTICLES

This is an excerpt from Charlie’s life. It is designed to add color and context to the high-impact feature-length novels within the Charlie Glass Crime Thriller Series. This piece is a work of fiction. All incidents, dialogue, and all characters, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life locales, articles, or incidents may appear, the situations, events, and dialogues concerning those entities are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles or reviews.

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